


The Scientist

by dreamalone8



Category: Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlolly - Fandom
Genre: F/M, First Time, Romance, Sexual Content, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-27
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-05-03 16:35:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5298509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamalone8/pseuds/dreamalone8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the threat of Moriarty's return hanging over their heads, Sherlock begins to go down a new path, awknowledging the feelings he has for the people in his life. Most notably, feelings for the woman he is beginning to realize is more than just his pathologist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock paced the length of 221b as fast as his long strides would carry him. He was worried, an appropriate emotion considering the possible, if not probable, return of Moriarty. No, it was not the emotion itself that was troubling him. It was the source of his worry: He was worried about Molly. 

"You're not a psychopath," he reasoned to himself. "Of course you should worry for her. She's your friend."

And yet, for once, logic did not soothe the world's only consulting detective. Instead, it left a hollow ringing somewhere in his chest.

 

***************

A knock on the door woke Dr. Molly Hooper from a dead sleep. As she stumbled towards the door blindly, only thinking of stopping whoever it was from waking her neighbors, the days events came crashing back into her consciousness. 

"Did you miss me?"

Molly froze, fear creeping in to her rapidly clearing mind. "He wouldn't knock," she told herself. But just to be sure...

"Who is it?" Her voice sounded small and frightened to her own ears, and she despised herself for it.

"It's me, Molly." replied Sherlock's voice. "It's Sherlock." He added the last almost as an afterthought, his vanity probably making him believe everyone would know him by voice alone.

Molly quickly unlocked the door, to find a slightly disheveled Sherlock standing on her doorstep in his ever-present Belstaff. Not waiting for an invitation, he shoved past her into the apartment, barely giving Molly a glance.

Usually, Molly would let this go. Normally, she was so infatuated with the brilliant detective that her mind would already be teeming with romantic reasons he could be there, rather than acknowledging his rude behaviour. But, today was not a normal day. Today, Molly was tired, and scared, and he was here at - she checked her watch quickly - 2 AM waking her up by pounding on her door...

And now he was staring at her. He stood across the room, next to the sofa yet not sitting on it, staring straight at her, a crease between his brows. Not saying anything. 

"What is it, Sherlock?!" Molly asked, on the verge of yelling, throwing her hands in the air to punctuate the frustration and exasperation she felt. "What brings you to my flat at 2 in the damn morning, and makes you just stand there staring and not saying anything?!"

Sherlock opened his mouth, as if to speak, and promptly shut it again. He didn't really know why he was here...he had been thinking, and pacing, and went out for walk...

"Molly," he started, trying to act as a friend would, even if that was not how he normally would have acted "Are you alright? I was worried, after the television broadcast..."

He trailed off, and Molly looked at him in confusion. This was not going well.

"Do you need a place to stay tonight? To hideout?" Molly asked in confusion, obviously not believing his concern was the reason he was here.

That struck something in Sherlock. He knew he wasn't a normal friend, that he didn't show concern and compassion in normal ways, but the thought that Molly completely disbelieved his concern...

He crossed the room in three long strides, reaching out to grab Molly's arms just above the elbows. "Molly," he repeated, searching her face. "Are you alright?"

Molly Hooper's heart began to pound in her chest, and she felt a tell-tale flush in her face. She would NOT cry in front of Sherlock Holmes. She would NOT cry in front of Sherlock Holmes. She would NOT--

"Molly?" his voice interrupted her internal struggle, and she quickly pulled away to hide her treacherous face, hoping he hadn't already deduced her weakness.

"I'm tired, Sherlock." she replied lamely, hoping it would make him leave and save her pride. Because she didn't want him to leave. Not for any silly, romantic reasons, but because she really was afraid. He had been here, in her flat. Jim from IT. Moriarty. Her boyfriend. The crazed criminal mastermind. He had slept in her bed. He had-- she couldn't suppress a sob now, burying her face in her hands, shame and sadness and anger filling her heart. 

Sherlock was unsure. He was no good here. He had no idea what to do. He took a step towards Molly, reaching out a hand and placing it on the top of her head, in what he hoped was a comforting way. He couldn't tell, her face was still buried in her hands.

Molly took a shuddering breath. Oh God, she was crying in front of HIM. He was going to think she was weak, pathetic, illogical. He was stroking her hair as one would a dog, that was probably what he equated her to. "Alright," she thought to herself "Just get out of this with some dignity intact."

"Sorry." She said while simultaneously looking up and wiping the tears from her face. She flashed a weak smile, trying to play off her emotions. "I don't know what came over me, I must be more tired than I thought. I really should get some sleep..."

"Of course." Sherlock replied politely. "I'm sorry to have woken you, I didn't realize the hour."

Once again, Molly was confused. While it was not unusual for Sherlock to disregard the normal waking hours of people, or even to disrupt the sleep of those around him, an apology from him was...out of character, to say the least.

"Sherlock," Molly began, as he started to take a step towards the door. "Why did you come over here? You never said."

"I did say, Molly, if you were paying attention," he said, sounding more like normal Sherlock, "My intention was to check on your well-being considering recent events. Now that I've seen that you're fine, I'll leave you to your sleep. Good night."

Sherlock beat a hasty retreat to the door, anxious to get this strange incident behind him. They could just both forget he was here, it was just an anomaly, not even worth remembering, wouldn't even make it into the mind palace.

"Do you think he's really back?" A small voice reached him just as he touched the doorknob. He turned to see Molly sitting on the edge of the sofa, looking at the floor, unable or unwilling to meet his gaze. 

"I did the autopsy," she continued in a voice Sherlock was not accustomed to hearing from his pathologist. Sherlock was unsure if she was even talking to him or just thinking out loud at this point. "It was him. I'm sure of it. And he was dead. I'm sure of that too. But today..."

"He could have filmed that ages ago, Molly. Paid someone to broadcast it after his death. I saw him die too." Sherlock had already thought through all the possibilities, of course. All the ways he could have faked his death, or set up today's broadcast before his death. But, in a moment of unusual sensitivity, he deduced Molly didn't want to hear all the options and their statistic probabilities. Instead, he crossed he room to crouch in front of her, a part of him hoping she would raise her head to meet his gaze. She did not.

"He was here." She said to the floor, so quietly he almost couldn't hear it.

Terror gripped the detective's heart. "What do you mean? Moriarty was here? You saw him? Molly," he paused, trying to calm down, feeling both an irrational fear for Molly and yet a small victory, like a hound who has been given a scent. "Did he threaten you?"

"No, no. Not today. That's not what I meant." Molly quickly replied, and Sherlock felt some of his fear ebb away. "I mean, when he was Jim from IT, and we were dating, he was here in my flat. Now it feels so...wrong. That I ever let him in here."

Sherlock felt a sense of relief at her explanation, but also a twinge of something he couldn't place...anger? But it wasn't Molly's fault. Moriarty had deceived everyone, even him, for a time. He said so to Molly, hoping to comfort her.

"I know, I know." Molly said dismissively, finally meeting his gaze. She offered a weak smile, a single tear glistening on her eyelashes. Sherlock was transfixed by the droplet glistening there. Slowly, he reached forward, placing his palm on the the side of her face. Using his thumb, he ever so gently removed the offending moisture as Molly blinked in surprise. He didn't remove his hand.

The silence stretched between them, increasingly awkward. Sherlock wanted to say something, anything, but he was baffled by the warmth he was feeling radiating through his hand where it touched Molly's face. And there was a fluttering in his abdomen which was not consistent with any medical condition he had ever heard of.

Without knowing why, he placed his other hand on Molly's face. Her eyes bored into his, confused, questioning, and...was that a tinge of hope he saw? That last bit gave him the push required, and he leaned forward, touching his lips to hers, softly, almost chaste. 

She tensed. Shocked, no doubt. Yet, within seconds, she was moving her lips with his, causing him to smirk internally. He moved his hands into the hair at the nape of her neck, weaving his fingers through the dark strands. Molly let out a small noise against his mouth, which, to his surprise, sent a streak of heat straight to his groin. He shifted from his crouched position onto his knees, unconsciously trying to get closer to her.


	2. Chapter 2

Molly leaned into Sherlock’s kiss, his hands tangled in her hair causing her to let out a pleading groan. Sherlock adjusted his position, wedging his hips between her knees. She slid toward the edge of her seat, reciprocating his need to be closer. 

Sherlock found himself wanting to go further, but unsure how to proceed. When he had dated out of curiosity or for a case, he had always let the women take the lead, not really caring what happened or where things went. But now, here, with Molly, he felt…desperate. He wanted to proceed, but was terrified he might do the wrong thing and cause this moment to come to a screeching halt. 

He settled for deepening the kiss, gingerly sliding his tongue into her mouth. Molly encouraged him by touching her tongue to his, and this time it was Sherlock’s turn to let out a soft groan. 

Upon hearing Sherlock moan, Molly finally moved her hands from her own knees up to wrap around Sherlock’s wiry frame. She pressed her palms into his back, wanting him closer than their current positions would allow.

Sherlock began to shift his weight forward, while pivoting Molly to the side, so that, finally, she was lying with her head resting on the arm on the couch. He slowly shifted to lie over her, trying to take most of his weight on his elbows, his hands still entangled in her hair. He moved one of those hands now, grabbing her hip and pushing himself against her once, twice. 

Molly arched against him, craving more contact. She should have been shocked this was happening, but she was too lost in the sensations, too caught up in the lust of it all for her brain, or her heart for that matter, to really register what was happening.

He could feel the outline of her breasts pressed up against him through the thin t-shirt she had been sleeping in. The thought that she was not wearing a bra inspired him to move his hand upwards from her hip, barely brushing the underside of her breast with his thumb.

Molly stilled. Suddenly, she heard a taunting, cruel voice from the past in her head ranting about her clothes and make-up, finally ending with the cutting phrase “…obviously trying to compensate for her mouth and breasts.”

“Oh God, what am I doing?!” she thought to herself, Sherlock’s words from that past Christmas looping through her head. All of the pain of his coolness, his rejections, stabbed her full-force. “He thinks my breasts are too small, and my mouth, this is probably all out of pity, he’ll never respect me again now, if he ever did…” Molly broke the kiss.

“Stop,” she said, almost in tears, AGAIN. “Please, please stop.” The tears came now, despite her efforts to fight them back. Damn, would she ever be able to NOT cry around Sherlock Holmes?

“Molly, I –“ Sherlock started, looking down at the now crying girl beneath him. Even he in his limited experience knew this was a very, very bad thing to happen in this context. He quickly retreated to the other side of the couch, careful to break every point of contact between her body and his. 

“Did I –“ he trailed off again, unsure of himself, something he was not familiar with. “Was that… wrong?”

Despite her embarrassment and shame, Molly looked at the man sitting on her couch. Did he just ask her if he did something wrong? Sherlock Holmes rarely admitted he was wrong and NEVER asked the opinions of others on the subject. And he ESPECIALLY never used a tone of voice that sounded so…unsure? Frightened?

Molly had a sudden thought that maybe, just maybe, a small boy with a mop of curls and bright eyes had once asked questions in that same voice, before he learned to face the world with pride and disdain as his weapons if choice. Despite herself, she felt the vice-grip of emotions strangling her loosen just a little, just enough to take a deep, shuddering breath.

“No, I –“ now it was Molly’s turn to falter. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just…I can’t…” She huffed out a breath, trying to gather her thoughts. This had been a really long, strange day. A part of her wanted to just tell him to get out, to not have this awful, embarrassing, scary conversation. How did they even get here? To a place where the subject of her fantasies for the past several years was snogging her on her couch at two in the morning. And not just snogging her. Kissing her and touching her and pressing himself…

Molly blushed deeply and looked away. “What are we even doing, Sherlock?”

“Well,” Sherlock smirked now in that way that had given Molly butterflies for years, whether she wanted it to or not. “I would have thought that was quite obvious. As a pathologist, you must be familiar what happens when mammals of the opposing gender are attracted to each other.”

Despite herself, Molly laughed. “I’m quite aware of the consequences of sexual attraction, Mr. Holmes,” she said in her most professional pathologist voice. “I’m just not sure what that has to do with…us.”

Sherlock looked at Molly as one looks at a small child when explaining something. “Human beings are included in the mammalian genus, Molly.”

“No, I…I know that. But you…you don’t feel…that is, you don’t see me as…” Molly trailed off, unsure what else to say and confident Sherlock could pick up her train of thought.

She was wrong.

He continued to stare at her expectantly, obviously waiting for her to finish her thought. But she didn’t want to admit to him that the words he had spoken some time ago were still with her. That for all her torch-carrying and unrequited feelings, there might be too much history between them for this to really happen. That he might have made one too many scathing remarks, one too many stinging deductions, for her to actually be vulnerable around anyone, least of all him. 

“You don’t find me…appealing, Sherlock. You’ve made that abundantly clear in the past. The only times you’ve ever said anything nice about my appearance were when you needed something from me.” The words just tumbled forth, almost of their own free will, coming out much harsher than she would have liked. But it was out now, maybe now he would just go home and they could go on with their lives pretending this never happened.

“What ever gave you that idea?” Sherlock asked softly, completely serious. Was he…? Indeed, he was completely serious. Molly felt anger start to bubble inside her chest.

“You make fun of my make-up, my clothes. And you say I use them to try and…to try to – “ she stopped, feeling tears threatening once again. “I won’t do this.” She practically ran into the kitchen then, scrambling for the bottle of wine she kept in the cupboard like a drowning man goes after a life raft.

Sherlock remained where he was, stunned to inaction. Upon hearing the sound of breaking glass from the kitchen, he stood and made his way to where he knew a very uncomfortable situation awaited him. Had this been before his fake death, he simply would have left. But since his return, something had changed for the detective. Not only did he find himself wanting relationships, friendships, contact, but he also wanted the same for Mycroft, for everyone, really. He had begun to realize that maybe being alone didn’t have as many advantages as he’d previously thought. His love for Mrs. Hudson, John and even Mary had been easier to accept, to categorize and put away in his mind palace. But these feelings for Molly were…different somehow…they had an undertone of…pain? Fear? Sherlock couldn’t decide where to put them, if they belonged.

Molly was cleaning up the remnants of a wineglass, a second glass filled nearly to the top in her hand as she did so.

“Molly, I never meant to…hurt you.” Sherlock said, knowing even as he did it was a lie. He used his deductions to slice at people, push them away when he felt they were getting to close, or when he started feeling more than he could handle. Obviously Molly knew this as well.

“Yes, you did,” she replied in a matter-of-fact way, without looking up from the shards or glass she was gathering into a small pile. “And it worked, Sherlock. Every time. Sometimes more than others, but every time.”

Sherlock tried another tactic. “Molly, do you remember, before…when you told me you could see that I was sad when I thought no one was looking?” Molly nodded in assent, and he continued, “That’s what this is.” There was a pause, as if he was struggling with what to say next, “And, for the record, I do find you quite attractive Dr. Hooper.”

After several seconds of awkward silence, Molly quietly completed the motions of cleaning up the broken glass, taking several long sips of wine as she did so. She kept her eyes carefully averted, not able to stand the sincerity shining out of the detective’s impossible eyes. She realized she didn’t know how to handle this Sherlock. Arrogant Sherlock, sure. Brilliant Sherlock, that was her bread and butter. Even junkie Sherlock, she knew what to do. But every time he was like this, every time he was kind and thoughtful…she worked so hard to move on, to not have feelings for this impossible man. Yet every time he did this, made her feel like she mattered, she realized just how fruitless those efforts were.

“So, are you saying you want to be my friend, or that you think I’m sad when no one is looking?” Molly asked, leaning her hip against the counter top, resigned to finish this confusing night once and for all.

“I’m saying, to quote someone I already consider a friend, if there’s anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all…you can have me.” Sherlock finished parroting her own words back at her slowly, his gaze never faltering. Had this been before the fall, hearing those words, from this man, would have made Molly’s romantic heart flutter. Now, after Moriarty, after the fall, after Tom…she just met his gaze, and nodded.

“And the…on the couch? That was?” Molly had to ask, tonight was entirely too confusing and she needed some semblance of the normal order to be restored.

For the first time since she’d known him, Sherlock Holmes blushed. 

“As I said, I do find you attractive. The rest is easily explained by the resulting hormones and biochemistry.”

Molly nodded in response, the answer enough for now. She then braced herself to ask her last question.

“You say you find me attractive…but, you’ve said so many things to the contrary. Which is it?” There was no inflection to her voice now. She had retreated to her professionalism, just a scientist, gathering the facts.

He had the look on his face that he often had when he finally put the last piece of some puzzle into place, spoke in the voice he used when explaining it as if it should have been obvious: “Your mouth.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’ve made several comments about its size, proportions, even lipsticks. Honestly, have you ever heard someone talk about another being’s mouth so much? It fascinates me, which defies logic, because, by society’s standards, it is too small for your face, doesn’t adhere to the golden ratio at all…so I say things. Cruel things. Does that answer your question?”

For the second time that night, Molly was struck by the image of Sherlock as a child. Struggling to cope with a world in which he felt he was always set just outside the rest, never quite belonging. Was it possible that it really was that simple? Was that good enough to make her let the rest go?

Molly cleared her throat. “Right then. Well, sorry for all the…crying. Glad we got that all sorted.”

Sherlock nodded, moving towards the door, finally allowing the night to come to an end. Molly followed to refasten the locks behind him, sure that she would not sleep again tonight. He opened the door, a strange tension settling between two people who had just spoken so intimately moments before. 

Sherlock paused just short of closing the door behind him. She couldn’t see him, but she heard his voice clearly, “You’re still who matters most, Molly Hooper.”


	3. Chapter 3

John Watson looked at his best friend carefully. He had noticed the change in Sherlock since he’d been back. At his wedding he was almost…sentimental. And the incident with Magnussen…completely selfless. It didn’t surprise John really, he’d always seen the best in Sherlock, lord knows he wouldn’t have stuck around otherwise…but his friend didn't seem as keen to hide his goodness as he once was. 

“Sherlock,” John started, eyeing the subject of his address carefully. “What brings you round at 6:30 in the morning? Not that I’m not glad to see you, but…”

“Really, John.” Sherlock turned from where he was inspecting the baby-proof outlet covers John had recently installed. “I would think you’d be eager to get this Moriarty mess solved, what with the imminent birth of your child.”

“But Sherlock, we haven’t anything to go on. Mycroft already traced the source of the broadcast, a dead end since the system was hacked remotely. If his people can’t go any farther, what hope do we have of getting more from it? We’ll just have to wait for the next move, if there is one.”

“I can’t do that John.” Sherlock said, turning away to fiddle with the child-proofing on the kitchen drawers. 

“You handled it just fine last time. In fact, I think you rather enjoyed playing his game,”John replied, just a hint of irritation creeping into his voice.

“Well, it's not a game anymore.” Sherlock said this quietly, as if it were a secret.

John was slightly surprised by this remark, albeit a little vindicated. It had always irked John how callous his friend could be regarding his cases, only seeing them as puzzles to be solved, not considering the lives of those involved.

“What's brought this on then?” John asked, hoping Sherlock truly was undergoing some sort of emotional transformation. 

“He’s in love with the pathologist,” stated Mary, stifling a yawn as she waddled into the kitchen. John hadn’t even known she was awake, and was constantly surprised how quietly she could move through the house considering her 38-week belly.

“Don’t try to make deductions, Mary. In your state there is not enough blood circulating to your brain as it is,” Sherlock replied nonchalantly, but with no real malice.

“You didn’t deny it though, did you?” Mary asked in a sing-song voice, grinning now, and slowly lowered herself into a kitchen chair, clearly unperturbed by the detectives comment.

“I’m quite fond of Dr. Hooper, naturally. She’s literally the only competent pathologist at St. Bart's. But I have no idea what that has to do with putting this Moriarty business to rest.”

John was silent, looking back and forth between his wife and best friend as if watching a tennis match. 

“So it doesn’t bother you that he slept with her?” Mary asked with a knowing raise of her eyebrows.

Sherlock opened his mouth as if to reply, but promptly shut it again. He then quickly turned and was gone out the kitchen door with a flourish of his Belstaff.

*********

 

Molly had quite the headache. True to her prediction, she had not been able to go back to sleep last night, and so she had imbibed in several glasses of wine in order to remedy the situation. That being the case, she was grateful for the solitude and silence her work provided as she slowly began the work of cataloging the demise of a body presumed to be Miss Eva Ó Muircheartaigh, aged twenty, killed in an automobile accident. Normally, since the death was accidental, Molly would have let it wait until tomorrow and taken a sick day. However, if it was confirmed to be her, the girl’s body would likely be sent back to her family in Ireland for burial, and Molly felt it cruel to prolong it.

The girl’s face was unrecognizable, the impact breaking enough bones to make even basic features indistinguishable. Fingerprints would be the quickest, if she was in the system. If not, she would have to send out for dental records for comparison. She got out her fingerprinting supplies, gently yet efficiently manipulating the girls’s still hands to get a full set of clear prints. She scanned these into the computer, and set the program to start searching for matches. 

While the computer worked, Molly sat down to catch up on paperwork. She constantly fell behind, especially when Sherlock was around making demands on her time. She shook her head, knowing if she started thinking about him now, about everything that had happened last night, she would never get anything done today. 

Just barely making a dent in the amount of work to be done, Molly looked up when she heard the door open. 

“Dr. Hooper?” it was Mycroft’s voice she heard from the morgue floor, much to Molly’s surprise. The eldest Holmes had only communicated with her a handful of times, including the setting up of Lazarus, and never did it directly, always sending an assistant or lackey in his stead.

“Mr. Holmes,” Molly addressed the man, walking out into the morgue from her small back office. “How might I assist you?”

“Well, Dr. Hooper, I have a proposal that would be of mutual benefit, if you are amenable to it’s terms, of course.” Mycroft’s opening line reminded Molly of playing chess with her grandfather, a champion-level player. It gave her the same feeling of a plan being set up before her, if only she were clever enough to see it.

Molly nodded, letting Mycroft know he might continue his explanation. “At my brother’s request, I am offering to place a security detail on you for the foreseeable future, or until the current predicament has been resolved.”

“In return for?” Molly asked, skeptical. She had to admit she would feel safer knowing they were there, however, knowing Mycroft, she was suspicious the cost might be too dear.

“We’ll just say…you owe me a favor. Nothing too distasteful, I assure you. A man in my position likes to have…connections in certain departments. You would be one such connection, should I have need, Dr. Hooper.”

Molly considered. Owing a debt to someone like Mycroft Holmes was not something to be taken lightly. Yet, she had a feeling he meant to call in his marker in a way concerning her profession, which wouldn’t likely be “too distasteful” as he put it. She had long ago grown accustomed to taking professional risks on a whim for the younger Holmes, why should the elder be any different?

“Thank you, I accept,” she said, sounding more sure than she truly felt.

“Splendid. My men will be around. You won’t see them. Carry on as normal-“

Mycroft was cut off by the computer to his right ringing, the sound loud and echoing in the quiet morgue and drawing is gaze briefly. This signaled the fingerprint program had found a match, the results now flashing on the screen. 

“Well, I’ll be going then. Have a fine day, Dr. Hooper,” and with that Mycroft was gone, leaving Molly with her confirmation of the girl’s identity, and a very sad phone call to make.

**************  
How in the sodding hell had he missed that? Bloody Sherlock Holmes, missing the the completely bloody obvious. Of course Moriarty and Molly had been…intimate. He had been committed to the illusion they were in a relationship, and even Sherlock knew that involved certain…technicalities.

That's what she had meant when she said he’d been in her flat, he realized. Sherlock felt slightly nauseated. He told himself the tightness in his chest came from having missed such an elementary deduction.

Lost in his swirling thoughts, he was not surprised to suddenly find himself back at Baker’s street. 

“Oh, Sherlock, you're up early,” Mrs. Hudson was coming down from his flat. “Was wondering where you were. Off on a case then?”

It was just then that she really looked at the detective, and seemed startled by what she saw. “My dear boy, are you alright? You look quite…pale.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes yes, Mrs. Hudson, quite alright, I assure you. Quite busy at the moment, excuse me.” He tried to brush past his landlady into the sanctuary of his flat, but she caught him by the arm.

“Sherlock, I know it's been…different since you've been back. And then that dreadful business of being shot…well, I just want to say that, I’ve grown quite attached to you over the years, never had any children of my own, you know…” She trailed off for a moment, seeming to be lost in memory. But then she continued, “and with John having Mary and the baby now, I feel like part of quite the little family. It's good, Sherlock. Family. And it's alright to care for your family.” She finished her speech, and looked at Sherlock, searching for some sort of understanding in his face.

Without even thinking about it, Sherlock found himself wrapping Mrs. Hudson in a hug. She had arguably been one of the first people he’d shown affection for, not tolerating Mycroft's rudeness in her presence and taking it as a personal offense when John had suggested she leave Baker’s street. The woman was maddening, to be sure, but she…accepted him. 

Mrs. Hudson hugged him back, letting out a sound of delighted surprise. “Alright then, Sherlock, off you go. Puzzles to solve and all that.” The older woman pulled back, feigning nonchalance, but Sherlock noted the moisture that had gathered in her eyes.

The detective slipped back into his own indifference, taking a step back. “Regarding that, Mrs. Hudson, I have a few questions you might be able to provide answers to.”

“Me?” She laughed. “Well, if you think so. Let me just put the kettle on, and we’ll discuss it over tea.”

Sherlock followed her into her flat, made himself comfortable in his usual kitchen chair as she busied herself gathering the things for tea. He didn’t know what he really intended to ask her, he really wanted her to explain all the questions he had swirling in his head about Molly, but he couldn't just come out and ask, it had to sound like it was for a case….

“So, what was it you wanted to ask me, then?” Mrs. Hudson sat down and began pouring the tea, making Sherlock grateful she wasn't looking him in the eye. He decided to take a round-about approach.

“What happened when I was-“ Sherlock paused, not wanting to say ‘dead’.”Gone?” 

Mrs. Hudson didn’t look surprised by the question. In fact, she smiled at him knowingly before answering. “Well, John moved out, that much you already know. Didn’t come around much, I suppose he couldn’t really, poor boy. Gave him a piece of my mind for that, I did. Your brother came by, after the funeral. Told me if I didn’t want to rent out the flat, your flat, he’d keep paying the rent. I thought it was kindness, at the time. Greg took me to tea every Sunday, for a time-“

“Who?” Sherlock interrupted.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade, Sherlock! My goodness…” She focused on regaining her train of thought. “Felt very guilty, he did, for not believing you, once it all came out. Oh, and that lovely girl Molly, she came by quite a bit. Came up with reasons, borrowing a book from your flat, looking for this or that you’d taken from St. Bart’s…but , really, I think she felt responsible for me, somehow. Darling girl.” She stopped, giving Sherlock a look he couldn’t decipher. “You should thank her for that, Sherlock, really. After all she’s done for you, ‘twould only be polite.”

Sherlock sighed. Leave it to Mrs. Hudson to go straight for the kill, in her way. But, this was a good reason to do something nice for Molly, he really was quite fond of Mrs. Hudson.

“If you insist, then I suppose I have no alternative, Mrs. Hudson. I suppose a written ‘Thank You’ will not suffice?” he feigned annoyance, but really, he was fishing for what the pathologist might appreciate. 

“Oh, no, Sherlock. You might get her a gift, or take her to dinner…”

Sherlock felt panic rise inside him. He had never been one for giving gifts. And while he had faked his way through dinner dates with women before, he found the pressure to make adequate conversation stifling. 

“…maybe the cinema, a comedy would do the poor girl good, lord knows…”

“What do you mean, a comedy would do her good?” Sherlock was pulled from his own misgivings by Mrs. Hudson’s implication.

“Well the poor thing’s been through the wringer, lord knows. First, that dreadful business with Moriarty and faking your death, then her fiancee breaking off the engagement…”

Sherlock had nearly forgotten about…What was his name? Tom. He’s noticed she’d not been wearing the ring, but had gotten distracted by other things.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll figure something out, Sherlock. After all, that big brain of yours has to be good for something then, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock was once again startled out of his own thoughts by the Mrs. Hudson speaking to him.  
“Sorry? Yes, quite. Very good. Good day then, Mrs. Hudson.”

He beat a hasty retreat up the stairs to his own flat, heaving a sigh of relief once the door was shut behind him. 

Finally in the comfort of home, the kind of comfort that comes from unwavering consistency, Sherlock Holmes relaxed ever so slightly. He was never quite the same outside of these four walls, in the ever-expecting gaze of the world-

The thought came to him suddenly, as all his most brilliant ones did. He would have Molly come here. Yes, that would be perfect. Perhaps here, things between them would make sense. They could eat take-away and he would thank her to appease Mrs. Hudson…

He took out his phone to text the pathologist, his preferred method of communication.

“Take-away at Baker’s street for dinner. Matters to discuss,” he typed out. Squinting slightly, he tried again. “Take-away at Baker’s street tonight, if you’re free. Matters to discuss. Thank you.”

He nodded, satisfied his message didn’t sound too…demanding, and sent it. The reply was almost instantaneous.

“Alright.”

*************

Molly wasn’t sure what prompted her to agree to have dinner with Sherlock. She still had a slight headache, which hadn't been helped by the bit of crying she’d done after informing the poor girl’s family…She didn’t cry over her work often, you got used to that sort of thing…but every once in a while, a case would come along that got under her skin. She didn’t mind, really. It was good to know death still effected her, no matter how hard she tried to keep it out. It meant she was human.

Whatever the reason, she now sat across from Sherlock in what was formerly “John’s” chair, eating her favorite dish from her favorite Chinese restaurant. She supposed it wasn’t surprising that Sherlock had known her favorite, he had seen her eating it enough at St. Bart’s, and he was brilliant at remembering things. 

“First, let me just say Thank You.” Sherlock said, beginning his carefully thought out monologue. “For looking in on Mrs. Hudson while I was away. You didn’t have to, but I know it meant a lot to her.”

Molly blinked. It was no secret that Sherlock cared for his landlady, but expressing gratitude was not characteristic…at least, it wasn’t before. He had thanked her for her help with faking his death, after all. Even kissed her on the cheek...

“It was nothing. She’d always been kind to me, and I felt guilty, knowing what I knew, and watching them grieve…” she trailed off, and shrugged her shoulders. “I just didn’t want her to be alone.”

Sherlock inclined his head in assent, gathering courage. “I know it can’t have been easy for you, then. And popping back up the way I did…I apologize if it was inconvenient for you.” His gaze went to her ring finger, now empty except for a very faint tan line. 

Molly followed his gaze and blushed. “Oh, that. No, nothing to do with any of that. Tom and I…actually, I’d rather not talk about it, if you don’t mind.”

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, this was exactly what he had planned. “Forgive me. I just thought that’s what people, friends, do. Talk about…things.”

Molly studied the man across from her. Seeing nothing to make her believe he was insincere, she was struck with inspiration. “Alright then. We’ll talk. But quid pro quo, Mr. Holmes. If I have to talk, so do you.”

Sherlock steepled his fingertips just in front of his face, considering. He did have several things he wanted cleared up regarding his pathologist, and, despite his own misgivings regarding sharing information about himself, there was this recent part of him which craved to be…known.

“Agreed.”

Molly smiled. “Alright then. Tom. Tom just wanted things…too fast. I never trusted him completely, I guess.”

Sherlock thought for a moment, weighing her answer. Before he could reply, Molly cut in, “Your turn, then. Why did you do what you did, for John?”

Sherlock knew she was referring to killing Magnussen. He also knew she knew the reason, as he did. Therefore, her motivation must be to get him to admit it out loud. He decided he would oblige.

“Because I was his best man, and I am his best friend, and I care for him. I want him to be happy.”

Molly’s traitorous heart gave a little twitch. The look of pure adoration on his face when he spoke of his friend…What would it be like to have someone look like that when speaking of her?

“Why didn’t you trust Tom?” Sherlock asked, continuing their game.

Molly looked down at her food and gave a little laugh. “Well, I guess you could say I don’t have the best track record, do I? He didn’t really ever do anything to give me reason to distrust him though. I suppose it wasn’t fair.”

Sherlock tensed at her reference to her relationship with Jim from IT, aka Moriarty. Given his reaction earlier today, he knew this was a road he didn’t want to go down, at least not now.

Molly’s turn. “When you took drugs that time six months ago, was it really only for a case?”

Sherlock closed the container holding his dinner thoughtfully, and set it aside. The answer to this question would bring them in dangerous proximity to things Sherlock didn't even fully understand about himself. He could deflect, offer up a half truth hidden by a cold remark, but he found he didn't want to.

“Mostly,” he replied honestly. “When I used drugs before, it was to help slow down my mind, so I could relax, just for a time. I learned to cope in other ways, obviously, hence my sobriety. However, when I came back, things were different. I was different. I had to learn, am learning, to cope again. That time…may have been partially a reflection of that.”

Molly was startled by Sherlock’s honesty. She hadn’t realized it when she asked the question, but it had been a test of sorts. The classic Sherlock response would have been full of denial and barbs. Yet instead, the man before her had answered honestly and with a vulnerability that moved her down to her bones.

“Last night. Why did you really ask me to stop, Molly?”

Molly blushed. She’d started this conversation, she wouldn’t be the coward to ruin it. “I…well…I remembered something you’d said…about my…” rather than speak aloud, she gestured to her chest, letting him fill in the blank.

“Molly, I-“

Molly cut him off with a wave of her hand. “We addressed your…remarks…last night. We needn’t talk about it again, really.”

This would be the point where most people would offer up an apology, for even if it truly wasn’t necessary, social protocols definitely called for it. But this was Sherlock. And so he simply nodded, a sad resignation in his eyes. 

Molly closed her styrofoam take away container, setting it on the floor next to her. Sherlock looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to continue, or for her to ask the next question. She did neither. Instead, she stood, reaching her hand out towards the man seated before her. When he took it, questions written all over his expression, she guided him to his feet, and enclosed him in the strongest hug her slight frame could produce.


	4. Chapter 4

Two hugs in one day surely had to be a record for Sherlock Holmes. He was beginning to understand the fondness people had for this seemingly illogical gesture. The pressure was comforting somehow, seeming to quiet his mind briefly, grounding him. He wrapped his arms around Molly in reciprocation, the difference if their height allowing his chin to rest on the top of her head. 

“Is this…alright?” Molly asked quietly, her voice further muffled by being partially pressed into his chest.

“Quite,” Sherlock replied, equally quiet, not wanted to disturb whatever fragile balance existed between them.

Molly spoke quietly into his shirtfront, “Thank you for answering before. I mean, really answering.”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, the open acknowledgment exceeding his comfort level. Molly noticed, and started to pull away slightly to look up at him. They quickly both realized her hair was tangled around one of his shirt buttons. 

“Oh, goodness, sorry, hold on-“

“Allow me-“

Their fingers tangled briefly around her wayward strands, but she was free a fraction of a second later. She took a step back and pulled the elastic from her hair, clearly intending to replace the now ruffled strands back onto her ever-present ponytail. 

Sherlock took half a step towards her. He had the urge to touch her hair, tuck a strand behind her ear. This was not something he could attribute to hormones or basic human needs. This was the kind of thing that only came from…fondness. Before, he would have counteracted this impulse with a cruel comment or stinging deduction. Now, he just felt a lingering sadness. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t bring himself to be that vulnerable, to do something he couldn’t easily dismiss later if he felt rejected.

Molly could feel his eyes on her while she pretended to concentrate on fixing her ponytail. She had the feeling that, if she allowed it, there could be a repeat of some of the more positive events of last night. Her heart clenched. She wanted to lie to herself, to pretend she could just have a physical relationship with the man she had tried so many times to forget, but not even she was that naïve. She knew if she went down that road she would, once again, be the one getting hurt. 

But Molly Hooper was no coward. She had faced a world without him in it, alive only in her knowledge, and had survived. She had felt so guilty about her part in the plan that she couldn’t meet John’s eyes any longer, and survived. She had let her damages chase away her fiancee, and survived. No, Molly Hooper was no coward. And that’s why, consequences be damned, she closed the space between them and pulled his mouth down to hers.

It felt so good to have her fingers in his hair. She had been transfixed by his unruly curls for years, to finally touch them this way was satisfying in a way she couldn’t have imagined. She gripped his hair tightly now, not wanting him to pull away or protest. For once, she felt like the power in their strange relationship rested more heavily on her than him. And it gave her the confidence to take his hand and place it on her chest, a clear message that she would not be stopping things this time.

Sherlock’s head was spinning. Her bold placement of his hand on her breast had made him harden to the point of pain. He moved his thumb over the swell of her breast, causing her to arch into him. Her response triggered something in him, and he wanted nothing more than to elicit more pleasure from her, feel her body’s reactions and hear her moans. File away each action and reaction away to be used, again and again. He moved down to kiss her neck, edging the collar of her sensible blouse aside. He was rewarded by a gasp, and her fingers tightening in his hair.

“Sherlock, I-“ Molly tried to form a coherent thought. “Bedroom?”

In response Sherlock pulled her off the ground, wrapping her legs around his waist. Molly brought her lips to his once more as he made his way back to his bedroom. Before she even realized they had arrived she found herself on an unmade bed, his weight pressing into her as he returned his lips to her neck. She worked her hands between them, going for the buttons of his shirt, needing to feel his skin under her hands.

She had only gotten a few buttons undone when she saw the scar from his gunshot wound. She touched it tentatively with the tip of her finger, thinking of how close he had come to death. Sherlock stilled.

“It was you, you know,” he said, resting his forehead on hers and closing his eyes. “You saved me that day.”

“What- I wasn’t even there.”

“You were the voice in my head. You told me how to survive. How to live.”

“Me? Why me? John’s the military doctor, he’s the-“

“Yes, he’s the logical choice, I agree. But it was you, Molly.”

Molly tried not to let herself read too much into it, to remain aloof. She lifted her head to once again capture his mouth, distracting herself with the part of him she knew she could have. She made quick work of the rest of his buttons, and he quickly shrugged out of his shirt. His skin felt smooth and warm under her hands, and she splayed her fingers across his back, feeling the muscles there working as he lowered his mouth back down to hers. 

His fingers went to her buttons, but he seemed to struggle ever so slightly. Molly had a sudden thought.

“Have you, you know, done this…”

“Of course, Molly, don’t be dense.” His quick, defensive reply stung, and Molly blinked up at him for a second, stunned. Before she could react, he let out an exasperated sigh and rolled off of her, to the other side of the bed, and stared at the ceiling.

“My curiosity wouldn’t allow me to not…know. So when I was younger, I hired a professional to enlighten me.”

“A professional?” Molly’s voice rose in pitch ever so slightly. “As in a prostitute?”

“Yes. Only logical to consult an expert.”

Molly was struck by how sad that was. No one’s first time was great, but to have it be an experiment, a lesson, with someone you paid… It was so typically Sherlock, oh-so-logical and yet sad in a way he couldn’t grasp, she couldn’t even be outraged. 

She turned towards him, angling her body so that she could kiss his bare chest. He looked down at her, and she met his gaze.

“It’s okay,” she stated simply, wanting him to know she accepted him, that she didn’t think any less of him, or think he was strange. Misguided maybe, but that was for another day. She swung her leg over to straddle his hips, and leaned down to kiss him, her fingers undoing her buttons herself as she did so. “It’s okay.”

Sherlock felt something inside his chest loosen ever so slightly at her declaration. Everyone was always raging at him, telling him how he shouldn’t have said this, shouldn’t have acted that way. And here was Molly, freeing him wither her simple words.

He sat up slowly. He helped her out of her blouse, stopping to place kisses over her neck and chest, making impressively quick work of the catch on her bra. And then she was before him, bare from the waist up. She made a move as if to cover herself, but he quickly grabbed her hands.

“Don’t.” He looked her in the eyes, willing her to feel what he felt. They held each other’s gaze for a few charged seconds, and Molly gave an almost imperceptible nod. 

He reached out to touch her skin, and Molly closed her eyes, the moment too intense. He slowly ran his hands over her, watching her reactions carefully. He filed away the places that made her shiver, the places that made her let out little whimpers. Her nipples were hardened into taught peaks now, and he leaned forward to capture one in his mouth.

Molly let out a strangled exclamation, almost sounding pained. She pressed herself into his lap, the need for friction there overcoming the vulnerability she was feeling. Suddenly it was all happening too slow, and she reached for his belt, eager to hurry things along.

As she fumbled with his belt and unzipping his trousers, her fingers brushing him there, Sherlock found himself struggling for control. He slid his hands up her thighs to grasp her bum, trying to ground himself.

She slid away, clearly intending of taking his trousers with her. He lay back and lifted his lower half, making it easier. She stood next to the side of the bed, and dropped his trousers on the floor. She then reached for the fly of her own trousers.

“No.” Sherlock covered her hands with one of his to still her movements. “Allow me. Please,” his voice broke on the last word, and Molly knew she could deny him nothing.

Molly sucked in a breath as Sherlock Holmes knelt on the ground before her. He pressed a kiss to her abdomen just above her waistband, and slowly began unfastening her trousers. Agonizingly slow, he ran his hands down the length of her legs, taking the sensible garment with him. His hands grazed the backs of her knees, and they buckled slightly. She put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself. Finally, he lifted her feet, one at a time, guiding her to step out. 

Molly Hooper stood before him in only her knickers, plain black cotton that somehow represented the pathologist perfectly. Sensible, understated, but alluring in a way that was somehow even more attractive because it was certainly unintentional. They contrasted strongly with her pale skin, compelling him to touch her. He ran his hands up the length of her legs, continuing until he was standing once again, pressed together, skin to skin.

Their breathing was loud in the quiet room. The moment was charged not only with physical attraction, but with the ghosts of things unsaid. They both were still holding back pieces of themselves, and they both knew it of the other. It burned inside them just as much as their attraction.

Sherlock turned Molly to face away from him, not done with his study of her. He placed a kiss where her neck met her shoulder, and she squirmed against him. He reached his hands around to cup her breasts, feeling the weight of them in his palms. 

His deliberate exploration was overwhelming Molly. She felt like he was taking her apart, one piece at a time.

“Sherlock…” she said his name like a plea.

“What do you need?” he whispered in her ear, pressing her against him.

“You.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock rested his forehead against Molly’s hair, closing his eyes and struggling for control. Her words, spoken in that desperate tone, threatened to be his undoing. There were a lot of things he expected he was not capable of giving, but he was fairly certain he could give her this.

He ran his hand down the front of her body, feeling her squirm against him. Ignoring the twinge of insecurity he felt, he continued until his hand was resting lightly atop her knickers. He paused, wanting to gauge her reaction.

Molly moaned and pushed her core against his hand. This pace was going to kill her. Every nerve ending in her body was on edge, all screaming to be touched at once. Sherlock ghosted his hand over her center, and her knees buckled.

Sherlock caught her weight, surprised by the intensity of her reaction to such a light touch. She was grasping the arm wrapped around her chest with both hands, as if it was the only thing holding her to this world. 

Frustrated with the pace, and wanting some form of retribution, Molly reached behind her to palm the hardness she could feel against her backside. 

Sherlock had been so focused on eliciting reactions from Molly and sorting them away that he had ignored how aroused he was. At her touch, all air left his lungs. Even through the thin material, the sensation was overwhelming. 

It was now that his mind began to teem with probabilities, possibilities, outcomes, complications. Typical to the detective, his mind had been quiet when focused on the task at hand, but now, with the focus turned back on him, faced simply with feeling what the moment had to offer, he began to overthink the situation. What if he wasn’t what she expected? What if he didn’t measure up to her other lovers? Was this just physical attraction for her? For him?

Molly felt him tense behind her, and turned in his arms. His face had an expression akin to when he was puzzling through scenarios for a case, and that simply would not do.

“Stop thinking,” she said up to him, slowly walking him back until his knees hit the edge of the bed. He sat, and she used her weight to push him back until they were laying down.

He swallowed hard. “Molly, I-“

“Shhh,” she soothed, sliding down his body and working on removing his briefs. “Stop thinking,” she repeated, tossing the detectives last article of clothing to the side.

Sherlock was not uncomfortable with nakedness, even his own. He had gone to Buckingham palace in only a sheet, for Christ’s sake. But suddenly he felt very exposed, and quite aware that he had absolutely no idea what to do with his hands. The decision was made for him, however, when Molly grasped his length in her hand, causing him to fist the sheets at his sides.  
Molly glanced up towards his face through her lashes, her face bent down to breathe warm air over him. She smirked, noting his eyes were squeezed tightly shut. The control had shifted back into her hands (literally), and she was going to make the most of it. Ever so slowly, drawing out the moment and keeping her eyes on his face, Molly lowered her mouth over him.

Sherlock’s “education” in sexual matters had naturally included fellatio, but this was something else entirely. While the mechanics were more or less the same, the effect on him was completely and utterly novel. He felt weak, completely given over to the sensations, and completely dependent on Molly to give them. He was no longer able to focus on anything besides Molly’s movements, and the desperate need for her to continue one moment to the next. 

Molly took him completely into her mouth, until she could go no further. Slowly, she moved her head up an down again, once, testing the waters. His ragged breathing encouraging, she began to move faster, knowing what the detective craved even if he did not. After a few minutes, she felt his muscles beginning to tighten, and he sat up quickly, pulling her up towards him with what sounded like a muttered curse, and crushing her mouth to his. She was so swept up in his kisses, in the gentle strokes of his tongue against hers, that it took a moment to register that he had turned them and was now lying on top of her, his hips cradled between her thighs, pressing against her where she needed him most.

Molly moaned into his mouth and pushed her pelvis up into him, seeking friction. He ground himself against her, causing her to moan into his mouth and dig her nails into his back. He hooked a finger under the waistband of her knickers and began to draw them down her legs. Breaking the kiss, he looked at her face, pausing for some sign of approval. Molly nodded slightly, and he shifted onto his knees to remove them from her legs. 

Sherlock bent down and pressed a kiss to the inside of Molly’s calf. He was going purely on instinct now, his lessons never delving into this more…intimate area. He worked his way up, placing another kiss on the inside of her knee, enjoying the journey up towards his goal. He had to tighten his hand holding her leg, she was squirming dreadfully. At this rate a whole room in his mind palace would need to be dedicated to her reactions to sexual stimuli. Interesting, his research had not indicated that the legs were erogenous zones. He kissed the inside of her thigh, and based on the pattern that was developing, he was surprised to feel her freeze and her breathing hitch, and not in what he thought was a favorable way. Looking up at her face, he noted that her eyes, which had been shut, were now open and looking toward the ceiling.

“Molly?” Sherlock asked, not sure what he had done wrong. He was sure he had been reading her reactions perfectly until now…

Molly continued to stare at the ceiling, not meeting his eyes. After a moment, she finally spoke, so quietly Sherlock almost couldn’t hear her. “ Could we not do…that? I just…I can’t.”

Sherlock was puzzled. All of his information showed that what he had been about to do was something most women enjoyed, although he had no first hand experience. Maybe he had deleted some important fact on the subject. Nevertheless, with a sensitivity only seen in post-fall Sherlock, he decided not to press the issue in order to satisfy his curiosity, and instead moved up to kiss her. She returned the kiss enthusiastically, which he took to mean the strange moment had passed. He worked his hand between them, reaching down to palm her now naked heat. 

Molly arched into him, desperately wanting him to move his fingers against her, her mind becoming hazy with the intensity of her desire. But, ever the sensible one, a very practical thought fought its way to the front of her mind.

“Sherlock,” She said to pause him, pulling her mouth from his, his hand resting between them still distracting her terribly. “Do you…condoms?”

Sherlock looked genuinely surprised by her query, and she couldn’t help but laugh, breaking the charge of the moment ever so slightly. At her laughter, Sherlock looked affronted.

“Why ever would I have such a thing? Unlike John, I am not a slave to my baser urges, rutting everything in sight-“

Molly thought it unwise to point out the hypocrisy of that statement in their current position. However, the mention of John gave her a thought.

“Maybe John had some in the flat somewhere?” she asked Sherlock, hoping this would indeed prove to be the case. 

Sherlock thought for a moment, distractedly removing his hand from where it was torturing her. When John had moved out, it appeared he had only taken those things he really needed, and avoided coming back, so the chances were good that he had left things such as these behind. However, where would they be? The most logical place would be in a bedside table…and John slept on the left side of his bed, closest to the door, so the left bedside table then. And his slightly prudish morality would keep him from keeping them in the first drawer, where they were more likely to be discovered…

Without a word Sherlock was up and out of the room, in search of his prize, leaving Molly only slightly flustered and frustrated. In what seemed a ridiculously short amount of time, the detective returned, holding the box like a proud cat might brandish his prize mouse. 

Molly ignored his smug expression, instead rising up on her knees to push her mouth to his, at the same time taking the box from him and pulling out one of the foil packets it contained. Sherlock reached out and teased one nipple with his fingers, worrying it into a tight peak. Picking up where they had left off, he once again let his hand drift down to the apex of her thighs, determined to slake his curiosity on this subject, at least. 

He was pleased to note she was quite well lubricated, something he knew to be a sign of adequate arousal and a benefit to pleasurable intercourse. Curious, he began exploring her with his fingers, having an intellectual knowledge of the anatomy but no practical application to go on. As he grazed a particular spot Molly jerked against him and whimpered. Ah, that would be the clitoris, then. 

He focused is attention on that spot, applying light, continuous pressure. Molly moaned against his mouth, and he felt her abdominal muscles quiver against his arm. He pushed her back into the bed, lying half beside her, half over her to continue his ministrations, relieving and reapplying pressure rhythmically, never lifting his touch completely. Molly began to moan in time with his motions, which he took to be a positive indication.

Molly was teetering on the edge, so close already, and yet not quite able to let go. She gripped his arm, feeling his breath against her ear. She could feel his intense concentration, and it was distracting her ever so slightly from her goal, making her feel vulnerable.

Deducing her frustration from her scrunched face and increasing pleas, Sherlock decided to try something to push her over the edge. 

“Stop thinking, Molly.” He whispered in her ear, simultaneously using his free hand to pinch her nipple, hard, and giving a final hard press against the bundle of nerves responsible for her pleasure.

His deep voice whispering against her ear caused a warm heat to unfurl in Molly’s belly. Before she could think about it too much, her climax crashed over her, causing her to arch off the bed with an exclamation of his name.

Sherlock was floored by the sight of Molly in this state. It caused his hardness to throb painfully, watching her writhe and moan his name. He watched her body begin to relax, her skin flushed and damp. She slowly came back to herself, and slowly opened her eyes to meet his.. 

“Did I—that is, did you…” Sherlock trailed off in uncharacteristic shyness.

“Orgasm?” Molly smiled up at him, somewhat pleased that he cared to ask. “Yes.” She pulled his mouth down to hers, kissing him languidly, the strokes of his tongue against hers causing ripples of aftershocks to course through her body. The high from her recent completion faded quickly, and suddenly she felt empty and needy. Remembering the condom in her hand, she extracted it from it’s foil package and maneuvered herself so that she could grasp his erection and roll it down his length. Her movements becoming desperate, she grasped his hips tightly, pulling him fully on top of her.

Sherlock felt himself positioned at Molly’s entrance, and all control and reserve left him. Without warning, he plunged himself in, seating himself completely within her tight channel. 

“Christ.” The exclamation left his mouth in a rush, a woeful understatement of the sensations he was experiencing. He remained still, his mind trying to process and categorize and failing miserably. 

Molly cried out something unintelligible, the sudden fullness startling her. His exclamation sent a wave of heat through her, and she reveled in the fact that she could cause the great Sherlock Holmes to swear. After a moment, he began to move in long, slow strokes. His gaze was locked on where they were joined, his breathing fast. She gripped the muscles of his back, lifting herself to meet his thrusts. 

He raised his gaze to her face, wanting to watch the reactions there. She was biting her lower lip, and every time he pushed inside her her eyes closed briefly. He kept his movements slow, already overwhelmed by sensation and not wanting this to end too quickly. This time, as he pushed into her he ground his pubic bone against her. She cried out his name in response, and moved her hands down to squeeze his buttocks.

She tried to pull him into her faster, harder. By chance, her eyes met his, his pupils blown wide, only a thin rim of blue-green visible now. The intensity there was overwhelming, forcing her to shut her eyes, the pressure within her building.

Sherlock looked away from her face, dipping his head to take a nipple into his mouth. He felt her clench around him at the contact, sending a jolt up his spine. Releasing her breast, he gave into the urge to move faster, earning a breathy ‘yes’ from Molly.

Knowing he wouldn’t last much longer at this pace, he reached down to use his fingers against her, wanting her to finish with him. She moaned his name, and within seconds she tensed around him, milking him. And, with a cry of her name, he followed her over the edge.


	6. Chapter 6

As Sherlock came back to some level of consciousness, he realized the entirety of his weight was currently on the woman beneath him. He shifted to lie beside her, withdrawing from her as he did. Molly made some sort of sound at his movement, and he placed an arm across her torso in what he hoped was a comforting manner.

He wanted to ask her how it had been for her. He wanted to ask her what she felt about him. He wanted to ask her what he should do now, after. But the words died long before reaching his lips, killed by the fear of inadequacy that had plagued him his whole life, covered up by facts and rudeness. He settled for just feeling her next to him, breathing softly.

Molly’s mind was still floating in bliss. When he shifted out of her she made a keening noise, unhappy at the loss. He placed an arm over her, drawing her slightly closer, and she let out a breath, settling against him.

And just that quickly, she remembered who she was next to. Adrenaline shot through her body, and she fought the panic rising inside her. She had just shagged Sherlock bloody Holmes, Britain’s most brilliant detective and the object of her fantasies. Insecurities pulled at her, telling her she couldn’t have this, couldn’t have him. She had to get out of here, she had to play it off like it didn’t matter…

“Well then,” she flashed what she hoped looked like a playful smile, sitting up on the edge of the bed and trying to locate her clothes.”Best be off. Thanks for dinner.” Thanks for dinner? God she was an idiot. She pulled on her trousers and stood, gathering the rest of her clothes and clutching them against her bare chest, already moving towards the bedroom door. She had to get out, and it would all be fine. Just two friends, having a tumble, nothing to get bothered over…

“Where are you going?” His voice from behind her caused her to stop, but she didn’t turn around to face him, focusing instead on clasping her bra, shrugging into her shirt.

“Oh, have to get home to feed Toby, you know. And have quite a busy day tomorrow-“

“Why aren’t you looking at me, Molly?” She couldn’t ignore the hurt in the detective’s voice. Damn him, he was going to ruin everything.

Sherlock felt incredibly saddened by Molly’s rebuff. She probably regretted what they had done, or this was just one more area of human interactions at which he was simply rubbish. There was a sudden dropping sensation in his stomach at the thought. He had hoped, if he really tried, he could have this. He could have relationships and friends and family and…a hidden part of him had hoped, maybe even love. 

Molly turned to face the man on the bed, looking at her now with hurt and confusion in his eyes. But as quick as she registered it, it was gone, the perfect mask of indifference falling over his face. She waited for the deduction or insult that usually accompanied the shift to this version of Sherlock, but it didn’t come. Instead, he just stared at her, clearly waiting for her answer behind the protection that his nonchalance offered. Immediately she felt a stab of guilt, knowing that this time, it was her who was causing him pain. 

“I really am in quite the hurry, Sherlock. That’s all.” 

“You’re lying,” he replied in his usual manner of deduction. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you lie before. But your physiological tells are much the same as anyone else’s.” He snagged his trousers and pulled them on, trying to maintain his façade of indifference.

Molly shut her eyes at his statement, knowing there was no point in denying the truth of his words. What could she say to him? “I’ve loved you for years and I’m terrified I can’t handle this.” or “As much as I pretend, this wasn’t just sex for me and I couldn’t bear it if that’s what it was for you.”? She was spared from speaking however, when he spoke instead.

“You’re…fearful,” he fell back on his natural skill set, observing the woman in front of him carefully. “Your respiratory rate is elevated, you’re flushed, and your pupils are dilated. These could, naturally, be attributed to recent intercourse, except your eyes keep darting around the room, like an animal looking for escape. As to the cause of your fear, we’ve known each other long enough that I feel it safe to assume you are not apprehensive of the possibility of me physically assaulting you. So that leaves fear of being hurt psychologically.” He let the statement hang in the air, an accusation.

Molly took a deep breath, knowing she was stuck now. He would know if she lied. Her only option was to tell the truth, and just try to keep it to a minimum.

“I am scared. What we did might…change things,” she finished lamely.

“I was hoping that you wanted things to change,” he replied calmly, making her heart jump in her chest. He couldn’t possibly mean what she wanted him to mean. Play it cool, Molly, she told herself, trying desperately to keep her heart from running away with her. 

“What do you mean?” she asked, in what she hoped was a normal tone, when really her stomach was knotting in anxiety.

Sherlock felt his own respiratory rate increase, and the telltale heat in his face that meant he was blushing. If he looked in a mirror, he was sure his pupils were dilated also. He didn’t know if he was ready for this, saying the words out loud. He’d avoided being in these situations the entirety of his life, hence he was ill-equipped to adapt to these feelings. He wiped his palms on his trousers, realizing they were damp. When he knew he wouldn’t be coming back from the mission Mycroft had provided, it had all seemed so easy. He knew he should have told her that he had missed her the most while he was away, that he never wanted to be without her again. He didn't have to know what else it meant, but that much he knew. He told himself he kept quiet because she was engaged, but he knew she wasn’t happy, he could see it, and he knew he was being a coward. But now that he had the chance…would it be enough for her? He couldn’t offer a grand declaration of love, nor could he promise to never hurt her, he very likely might, as much as he hated the idea. He couldn’t be a good boyfriend, or lover, in the traditional sense…all he could offer was himself, flawed and damaged as he was. He feared it would never be good enough for a woman like Molly Hooper.

“My time away changed me, Molly. I realized how much I care for the people in my life. And you, Molly...I care deeply for you, in a way unlike the others. I…I don’t know what it means, truly. All I know is I don’t want to be parted from you again, ever. And…I don’t want you to be with anyone else,” he added the last as an afterthought, remembering the annoyance he’d felt seeing her with Tom, the sadness he felt noticing her engagement ring.

Molly’s heart was pounding so hard she knew he must hear it, although he was standing several feet from her. She fought the glimmer of hope that he was saying what she thought he was saying…if she let herself believe that, and it turned out not to be the case…she might never recover. She took a step closer to him, dropping the remaining items she was carrying thoughtlessly as she did so. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the blow she was sure she was about to receive.

“Alright.” 

“Pardon?” The detective asked with raised eyebrows, as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“I don’t know what this means either. But I’m willing to let it continue, I think.”

Sherlock’s face split with a grin that made her stomach fill with butterflies, and she felt her own face respond with an answering smile. 

He quickly closed the distance between them, gathering her in his arms and crushing his mouth to hers. Christ, to kiss the mouth that had transfixed him for so long…he began to think it would never be enough, illogical though it was. 

Molly’s heart felt near to bursting. She poured everything she was feeling into the kiss, hoping against hope that this could really be. She ran her hands across his bare back, pulling him impossibly closer. He touched his tongue to hers and she shuddered in his arms, opening to grant him more access.

Somewhere in a corner of her mind, she registered a noise coming from the living room. She was more than happy to ignore it, but her brain was making connections, and in a flash she knew what it was.

“Sherlock, do you hear that?” She had to be wrong, there was no way that was…

The look on Sherlock’s face told her she wasn’t wrong. That was the Bee Gee’s singing “Stayin’ Alive.” And that could only mean one thing.

“Stay here.” Sherlock demanded, shoving her behind him further into the bedroom as he made his way out the door, towards the living room. Molly, never being one to be left behind, followed, glad his focus kept him from noticing she was right behind him. 

She quickly realized that the song was playing from inside her purse, sitting next to the chair she had been sitting in. Sherlock fished out her mobile, and from her place behind him, Molly could see a text message lighting up the screen:

“ I certainly missed you, Molly.”


	7. Chapter 7

Fear caused a sudden wave on nausea to hit Molly, and she struggled against the feeling of her dinner rising in her throat. She turned away from the screen of her mobile, still held in Sherlock’s hand, and slowly sank to the floor. 

Sherlock, ever the detective, was gathering what he could from the message. The number was blocked, obviously, and even if it could be traced, would likely lead nowhere. As to setting the song to play when it was received…that could have been a program or virus of sorts, or the simpler solution being…a sudden dread reverberated through him.

“Molly, has your mobile been in your possession all day?” He queried, turning and, to his surprise, finding his pathologist sitting on the floor a few feet away. She didn’t answer. “Molly?” he repeated her name, again with no reaction, her eyes having taken on a glazed expression. Perhaps she’s in shock? Momentarily unsure as to what his next action should be, he was seized by sudden inspiration and grabbed a blanket off the nearby sofa, and gently draped it over her shoulders. He hovered over her nervously, needing the answer to his question desperately, but trying to behave appropriately.

If it wasn’t for the fear radiating through her, Sherlock’s awkward efforts would have made her laugh. She wasn’t in shock, just deeply overwhelmed and afraid. She ran through her day in her head, intending to give him a precise answer. The only places she had been were home, her morgue, and the cafeteria in Bart’s. Her phone she been in her lab coat pocket at all times, and then in her purse when she’d taken that off to go home. She looked up at the fidgeting figure next to her, pulling the blanket closer about her shoulders.

“Yes. I quite certain my mobile has been with me all day. The only place I went was Bart’s, then here.” 

The detective thought for a moment, and then strode to where his own mobile was on the desk, and quickly sent his own text to Molly, testing a theory. Almost immediately, her phone came alive with the tinny sound of the Bee Gees once again. So, it was apparently set to play for all incoming messages. That raised another question.

“I assume this did not play when I texted you about dinner?”

Molly was certain it hadn’t, she would have had a similar reaction then as now. “I keep my phone on silent when I’m working. It only buzzed.”

Sherlock steepled his fingertips together, touching the tips to his lips, deep in thought. That didn’t help much, then. It could have been already set, and she wouldn’t have known. Of course, it would have foiled the plans of whoever was responsible if the song played too early, at an incidental message. He began pacing, working through possibilities in his mind. As he turned to cross the room, he remembered Molly, still sitting with her knees pulled into her chest.

He knew he should comfort her in some way. He could hug her, he supposed, that seemed to be the social convention. However, he felt somewhat apprehensive about doing so. What if she didn’t want him to? Deciding he needed to do something, he settled on the only other option he could think of.

“MRS. HUDSON!” he screamed, confident that the elderly landlady could hear him from her flat. His sudden outburst appeared to startle Molly, making him feel instantly abashed. She was looking at him quizzically, but made no move to stand or change position. Hearing the welcome sound of feet on the steps, Sherlock went to open the door for the motherly woman, grateful she always came so quickly when called.

“Whatever are you bellowing about at this time of night, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson asked, adjusting her wrapper around her. She quickly looked at the shirtless man before her, taking in his rumpled hair, and gave him a meaningful look. 

“Why Sherlock, been getting into mischief, have we?” Mrs. Hudson asked, smiling. Rather than try to explain, Sherlock merely pointed in Molly’s direction, where she was partially hidden by the sofa.

Mrs. Hudson took a few steps in the indicated direction, and quickly saw the girl sitting on the floor. “Goodness! Molly, dear, are you alright? What’s happened? What’s Sherlock done now?” The older woman rapid-fired questions while kneeling down to examine Molly, shooting Sherlock an unpleased glance over her head.

“I’m quite fine, really. It’s not Sherlock’s fault, we both had a bit of a scare is all,” Molly quickly tried to reassure the kindly landlady, even offering a wobbly smile. 

“And what, he just left you on the floor? Sherlock, go make some tea, for Christ’s sake. And you, dear, up and on the sofa with you.” 

Sherlock had been quite uncomfortable during this exchange, lingering awkwardly by the front door. At Mrs. Hudson’s request, he quickly moved into the kitchen, glad to have a task to complete. However, he quickly realized he didn’t know where the kettle was, or the tea, for that matter. He cleared his throat. “Mrs. Hudson-“

The tiny woman strode forcefully into the kitchen, giving the detective a look of impatience. She immediately grabbed the kettle from its place (the cupboard above the stove, Sherlock noted) and went about making tea.

“What are you doing just standing there, Sherlock? Go sit with the poor girl then!” Mrs. Hudson admonished, clearly exasperated that she had to tell him to do so. Sherlock retreated from the kitchen, feeling more uncomfortable than ever. He paused, noticing Molly was now seated on the sofa, turned away from him. Steeling himself, he crossed the room and quickly sat down beside her, yet careful not to be touching her in any way, unsure. He stared at her openly, hoping for some clue, some deduction he could latch on to regarding how he was expected to proceed.

Molly did him one better. Without thinking, she leaned into the man beside her, resting her head on his shoulder. It was unconscious really, she was lost in her thoughts and drawn to the warmth and potential comfort. For his part, Sherlock responded appropriately, if hesitantly, by putting his arm around her shoulder. 

Molly released a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “Sorry about…that. Shouldn’t have gone to pieces like that.”

Sherlock wisely remained silent, knowing too well the replies that came to mind about the tendencies of the female sex to become hysterical would not be appreciated. He just tightened his hold on her fractionally, hoping that sent the message of reassurance which he was unable to convey out loud.

“Here we are dears,” Mrs. Hudson placed the tea tray before them, and busied herself pouring the tea.

In response to the landlady’s sudden appearance, Molly moved from under Sherlock’s arm and shifted slightly away, not wanting to make things…awkward. However, much to her surprise, he followed her movement, maneuvering closer once again and replacing his arm about her shoulders. Molly blushed deeply.

If Mrs. Hudson noticed the climate between the young couple, she pretended otherwise. Handing them each a cup of tea, she settled herself into the nearby chair, clearly expecting some sort of explanation for her presence being required. Sherlock normally would not indulge this obvious social obligation, but he considered that if he did not, Molly would certainly feel the need to. And, for a reason he wasn’t going to examine too closely, he wanted to spare her that right now.

“We received a message of an alarming nature. About a case,” the detective ventured, hoping this would assuage the older woman’s curiosity.

“Oh I see,” Mrs. Hudson nodded understandingly, and Sherlock heaved an internal sigh of relief. “Is the case regarding the disappearance of your shirt?”

Sherlock looked down at his bare chest, having forgotten his semi-dressed state. He quickly glanced at Molly, then back at Mrs. Hudson, opening and closing his mouth like a fish, the landlady’s eyes twinkling with mirth.

Molly couldn’t suppress the laughter that bubbled up. Watching Sherlock struggle to regain his composure, she knew she should likely be embarrassed as well as he, but she just wasn’t. In fact, she was beginning to get the feeling that the older woman sitting across from her was quite pleased with finding them there in such a state. Molly wondered if she’d had some hand in it all.

“That will be all, Mrs. Hudson. Thank you,” Sherlock attempted to dismiss the matronly figure, having regained his composure somewhat. He suddenly wanted the woman gone, longing to be alone with Molly once more. 

“Really, Sherlock, how rude. Calling me up here, just to dismiss me like some kind of servant…” Even as she protested, Mrs Hudson stood to leave, a mischievous grin still in place. And…Sherlock couldn’t be sure, but did she just wink at him?!

As the door shut behind their guest, Molly felt laughter rising anew. She shouldn’t take such pleasure in Sherlock’s discomfort, but, well, it was just too good. Not to mention, the distraction was more than welcome.

Sherlock cleared his throat, shifting his weight from foot to foot, suddenly very tired. He didn’t truly sleep all that often, but he had the most peculiar desire to spend the remainder of the night in his bed, with his pathologist in his arms, where he knew she was safe. The thought of asking her for such a thing seemed ludicrous, and sent a wave of nervousness through him. But the idea of her leaving his flat to return to her own seemed unthinkable to him, and he knew he needed to say something.

“You should get some sleep,” he stated. She nodded, but didn’t move, unsure of his meaning. Did he want her to leave? Her head told her that was most like him, and was honestly the smart thing to do, she had a security detail after all. But her heart, her damn, traitorous heart, wanted to stay the night here with him, and wake to him in the morning. She knew she could never voice these things aloud, her pride wouldn’t allow it. So she remained silent, hoping it would force him to be more explicit, she knew he had no problem telling her to leave if that was indeed what he wanted.

“Shall we go to bed, then?” he asked, hoping his apprehension didn’t show in his voice. He noted that her eyes widened at his words, and a slight flush crept into her face, as did a small smile. She stood silently, and offered him her hand. He took it, also silently, and, for the second time that night, they headed back towards his bedroom.


End file.
